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"You got some nerve asking me what's wrong. 'Oh, what ever could cause this distress?' you whine pitifully and expect some reassuring psychobabble in return. Try shutting your gob once and awhile. It's unbelievable - you stuff your face with every imaginable junk food in quantities that would stagger an elephant and need me to explain your heartburn. That hot sauce you love so much is strong enough for spot-welding. It's not childhood trauma, you idiot, it's gluttony. "
Or this from my right rotator cuff:
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"Oh, so now, Mr. Big Shot wants muscles. For sixty years, he barely lifts his butt off the couch, and now he's pumping iron like a defensive tackle in training. You're sore?You're old. Try removing 10 lbs. on your fly reps, and don't hock me about your psychic pain. "
What really scares me is that opening this Pandora's box won't lead to healing but provoke labor unrest instead. Once my aggrieved viscera learn of their common suffering, they'll want to organize. I've always suspected my left ankle of unionist sympathies. If I give him the opportunity, I bet that Commie bastard will incite my entire body to join in anti-me solidarity. Any accusation of mistreatment - an anchovy pizza at midnight for example - could no longer be settled with antacids, but would require a visit from the NLRB. A strike would be life-threatening, and I doubt local hospitals will let me raid their organ banks for scabs.
I have a better idea. Let my insides do their jobs as best they can, and I won't ask them for psychotherapy.
1. davidji, lead educator, The Chopra Center for Wellbeing.
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